


STAY ALIVE | RICHARD HARROW

by manhattan_mari



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:14:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27067735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manhattan_mari/pseuds/manhattan_mari
Summary: richard harrow in wisconsin, 1919, and again in 1924. how things have changed.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	STAY ALIVE | RICHARD HARROW

— _IN WHICH RICHARD'S TRUST IS BROKEN THEN RESTORED_

xxx

  
_**—1919** _

"Spends more time talking to that dog than me," Emma said, looking out the window to that barn where her brother spent most of his time. She placed her hands on the edge of the counter and leaned over it.

"War is Hell," her father said. He'd been sitting at the kitchen table but he stood now, to stand beside his daughter.

"A dog doesn't know that."

"Do you?"

She huffed and tucked stray hair behind her ear. "Well. I talk back, anyway," she said resignedly, turning from the counter. She looked down to Sampson's water bowl at her feet, finding it empty.

"Maybe that's the trouble," he suggested as she picked it up. He paused, choosing his words very carefully, a habit Richard had learned from him. "You're hateful," her father told her, "just a bit."

She made a face. "To who? Richard? You? No one." She filled the bowl and set it upon the floor in corner. But she saw it, herself. The way she bristled at Richard's uneasiness toward her (never, ever his injuries), or heard with sourness instead of sympathy news of the aftermath the war. But the uneasiness that plagued the twins now had never been _her_ doing. She had treated him no different; still as the man who made up dances to silly songs with her or threatened to punch the boy who'd broken her heart in sixth grade, for he was still the same, wasn't he? (Maybe not, but she didn't let herself entertain the idea.) No, it was _he_ who shunned _her_. She was bitter and there was no hiding it.

As she'd said to her father, though, she was never hateful _to_ anyone. It bothered her, yes, the distance her brother kept, and the issue was bound to manifest itself. She knew that, vaguely, but she wondered if she denied it, saying no _word_ of how she felt, that maybe it wouldn't bleed out, through the telling turn of her head; or downward slide of her gaze; or subtle, quick furrow of her brow.

"I didn't say _toward_ anyone. You are resentful these days, in general."

She opened her mouth, then closed it. "Can you blame me?"

"I only meant for you to be mindful, Em."

She didn't say anything as he left the room but stayed still. It had begun to rain, lightly but steadily. The wall was thin near the stove, and she heard, clearly, each individual patter of a drop.

xxx

  
"You wouldn' believe it, Sam," Richard said to the mutt whose head was flopped in his lap. The dog's eyes were closed, but he wasn't asleep. "Yards and yards," Richard continued. "Of schrapnel and smoke. Craters and wire. Mm. Like something out of a. Science fiction novel. It could be-" Here, a tick in his dry throat that he navigated uncomfortably, but without shame or aggitation; only mild annoyance. "It could be," he started again, "the brightest day. And it would always. Be night here. This was no man's land."

Sampson's head moved under his hand. The dog blinked slowly as if to show he was listening. Richard felt a raindrop hit his forehead through the hole in the roof, but he didn't move. He leaned his head back against the hay that had been piled rather haphazardly against the wall. People always said it smelled sweet, but he decided it smelled both sweet and dirty, only bashfully unpleasant, and widely accepted.

How long had he been out here? a few hours? He looked down to his watch, which was scratched about the face. It was nearing seven. He decided he should go back to the house, lest his sister and father think he had perhaps hanged himself out here, which soldiers were doing left and right. It was a very twisted conclusion to come to, but not terribly unlikely, for he had more than once considered doing such a thing out in the forest, or alternatively slicing his wrists open.

He looked to Sampson again. "Come on then," he said, standing slowly, forgetting the mask lying on the floor and nearly stepping on it. "Damn."

Sampson had stood as well, and took it in his mouth about the left arm of the glasses.

"Thank you," he said reaching to pull the mask from the dog.

**_— 1924_ **

It had thankfully stopped snowing yesterday, but the ground had been still thick with muddied slush and snow that made their shoes slide a bit through the woods. They had bagged no rabbits, nor any squirrels, but it had been nice anyway. Now, Richard and Tommy stood in the barn, the boy sitting on a now nearly barren table, a small tin trophy in his hand.

"You won this for... horse riding. You're good at that!?"

"I was," Richard said, half shrugging. Curiously, it was the same one picked up by Carl Billings and he was reminded of that day; " _Was this for something you actually accomplished?_ "

"Not anymore?"

"I suppose. I'd be alright still."

"Probably." He kicked his legs out and put the trophy down. "You're good at a lot of things, aren't you?"

" _You said it was the only thing in the world you were good at_." "I have been," he granted.

They were quiet. Richard frowned up at that hole in the roof, still not repaired. He had meant to do something about that.

"Whatch' looking at?"

"Mm. Nothing."

"We've known each other a long time, haven't we?" He said it as though he had been wanting to get a chance to, the way most children do at some point in their lives. His tone, though; They might've been old friends meeting at a bar, having gone through Hell and back together. In a way, maybe they had, and it made Richard unbearably sad. His heart twisted just a bit as he looked back to the boy, gazing ever so trusting, expectant up at him.

"I suppose. Mm. We have, yes."

"Can you take your mask off now?"

"Sorry?"

"You trust me, right?"

"Maybe more- than anyone. Else. In the world."

"We _ll_." He spoke lightly, that usually present attitude still lingering in his voice, but very, very carefully.

"Mm. Okay." Richard stood in the weak winter light dripping through the ragged wood above him and slowly removed his mask before turning back to Tommy.

His gaze flickered over his face, shadowed with ruined skin, and the hole where his eye should have been, the scar curling over his cheek where bone was missing, the jagged side of his mouth. "I think you look very handsome, anyway."

Richard blinked. "Thank you, Tommy."

"You can put it back now."

He nodded and did so. "Let's. Go inside."

"It's cold."

"That's why I said it."

Tommy jumped down from the table. "Can we make a fire?"

"Sure." Richard placed a hand on his shoulder as they walked back to the house.

"Nic _e_."

Richard glanced back, toward the woods. He was grateful, he decided, that he had resisted the temptation of going out there and never coming back five years ago. He was grateful for that dog snatching his mask from the floor of the forest of New Jersey. He was very grateful indeed for Emma calling his name mere weeks ago, as he again laid back on a rock with a rifle in his mouth.

"What are you _thinking_ about?" Tommy asked, gently tugging at his hand. They stood at the back door now, and Richard realized he had stopped walking.

"I'm not."

"Yes you are. I can tell."

"You know. That I love you, right?"

" _Yeah_."

He opened the door. "Good."


End file.
